Page 34 of A Rogues & Gentlemen Christmas

The Christmas Rose

Chapter 1

“Wherein our hero is caught in the parson’s mousetrap.”

7th December 1820. London.

Felicity Bunting was five and twenty, and on the shelf. Everyone knew it.

Well, not any longer.

As of ten minutes ago, she had become spectacularly engaged to the wickedest rake in Christendom.

Suddenly, the dusty shelf she had resented for so long looked rather appealing, and she wanted to climb back on it and stay there, forgotten and unnoticed. For the first time in her life, the idea was positively blissful.

If she was honest with herself, Bunty wished she had organised this dreadful scheme, as everyone obviously believed. If she had been the mastermind behind this horrid scandal, at least she might have felt some sense of power, of having achieved her aim. Instead, she was mortified and ashamed, and wished she could curl herself up very small and hide in a corner… though the idea of buxom Felicity Buntingbeing able to appear small was laughable in itself. In a world where the ideal woman was slender, wraithlike, and prone to fainting, Bunty was tall, plump, and in excellent health. She bounced rather than drifted ethereally into a room, and would always prefer to laugh and have another slice of cake than sigh dramatically and appear mysterious and tragic. She was no Gothic heroine, yet somehow she had just made a tragedy of her own life.

And not just hers.

“It will be all right, Felicity,” her mother told her, though her gaze darted frantically between Bunty’s father and the unwillingly betrothed Lord Courtenay.

They had made a hasty exit from the party they’d been attending, only to discover the devilishly handsome lord on their doorstep five minutes later. Now, Mrs Bunting was huddled with her daughter on a loveseat, and Bunty thought her mama was trembling harder than she was.

“Though really, child, why on earth you had to make things worse by saying he wasn’t the man you’d wanted to trap….”

“Worse?” Bunty repeated on breath of laughter. It had a slightly hysterical tinge to the sound, so she snapped her mouth shut for a moment before adding, “And that was not at allwhat I said. I said the trap had not been meant for him. I never said I set the trap, did I? I’m as much a victim of this as he is.”

“Well, at least you’ll be married, dear.” Her mother’s voice held a faint note of satisfaction at that, and Bunty stared at her in outrage. Mrs Bunting flushed. “I’m sure he’s not really as bad as the scandal sheets make out,” she added in a rush.

Bunty snorted. She had followed the wicked man’s escapades for years now, and hadn’t the slightest doubt he was far worse.

Her husband-to-be—she winced—Lord Courtenay, was speaking to her father on the other side of the room. He radiated tension, as well he might, having just been trapped into marriage.

Of course, everyone believed she had arranged it. Why would they not? She was five and twenty years old and had never received an offer of marriage. Not one. There had been Mr Arkwright, three years ago. He had seemed promising, but then someone had sniggered rather too loudly over the fact that Bunty was a full three inches taller than him and she’d never seen him again. Not that she’d been heartbroken, far from it, but still….

She didn’t want to be a spinster, an old maid, a burden to her parents. Not that they would ever say as much, or even think it. For all they despaired of her, they loved her and wanted her to be happy. Well, so much for happiness. Oh, of all the men to trap into marriage, why had it turned out this way? Lord Courtenay, of all people. Just looking at him made her knees feel all trembly and weak. He was just so… large and vibrant and… powerful.

Well over six feet tall, he was perhaps one of the few men to whom she had ever stood close and not felt like an Amazon. He had thick, black hair, curled in unruly waves, and his skin was not the pale, insipid colour of most Englishmen in the winter months. Instead, it had a golden tint to it that only added to the impression of virile good health, and then there were his eyes. Lord Courtenay had eyes the blue of a Mediterranean sea, piercing and utterly swoon-worthy.

She sighed.

And now he would hate her until the end of time. Marvellous.

“Felicity,” her father said, a look in his eyes that suggested he believed she had run mad. If he thought she’d deliberately tied herself in marriage to this devilish fellow, she could hardly blame him. “The arrangements have been made. You’ll marry the day after tomorrow.”

Bunty swallowed and dared a glance at Lord Courtenay. His face was a mask. Her heart quailed. Lord Courtenay—Ludo to his friends—had always smiled at her up until now. She had never tried to fool herself that his smile had any meaning to it, past a faint sense of pity and a naturally amiable temper—well, amiable towards women, anyway. Ludo was a rake of the first order, a hell-born babe, a troublemaker, and a black sheep. He was the youngest son of the Marquess of Farringdon who had thrown him out years ago, and Ludo had responded by putting all his energy into blackening the family name as far as he might.

He’d done a spectacular job so far.

Yet, unlike many of the men she had encountered, he had never been cruel. Not to her, anyway. There had been no smirking or murmured comments for her to overhear and make her blush with mortification. He had always given her that smile that caused her insides to quiver and made her feel muddled and giddy. They had not met that often, but for Bunty it had always been a memorable occasion. She had carefully packed away the thoughts of that sensuous mouth curving upwards just for her, to be taken out and relived again and again on the days when she felt alone, fat, and unloved.

Now he’d likely wish her to perdition on a daily basis and never smile at her again.

Oh, well. Such was her fate. As her mother said, at least she was getting married.

Bunty tried not to cry.

One hour earlier…